


Prima Donna

by turtlebook



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Operas, didn't do the research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlebook/pseuds/turtlebook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the most celebrated sopranos of the day, Dame Alexandra Kingston of Her Majesty's Theatre in London is as spoiled and pampered as she is talented. Matthew Smith, lowly chorus member, is precisely nobody - or nobody of any note, anyway. Until the day he is noticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> I'm issuing a blanket warning that historical inaccuracies will abound in this fic, and probably also operatic inaccuracies. Almost everything I know about opera in Victorian London I learned from a) wiki and b) The Phantom of the Opera (which is set in Paris). In other words, I don't know a lot about opera in Victorian London. I did watch the ['Prima Donna' scene from the recent movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBUlPqaVj88) a bunch of times on youtube and pictured Alex Kingston being fawned over while holding a poodle, though, so I think I'm all set.

Her final curtain call was, as always, a veritable shower of perfumed blossoms amidst a storm of cheers. Petals carpeted the stage as she made her last curtsy, waved her last wave, smiled her final, beatific smile, and exited, stage left. 

As soon as the opera's leading lady was out of sight of the adoring audience, her smile vanished. She handed off the large, trailing bouquet in her arms to Jenna, who was waiting there for her in the wings as she did at every performance. As the flowers changed hands, she met the girl's eye and, very pointedly, did not say anything. 

She continued to speak not a word as the prop-master's assistant came to whisk away the sparkling tiara she wore, to be polished and made ready for the next night. When someone offered her champagne she waved it away with a mere flick of her hand. Someone else brought the day's collection of love letters left for her at the stage door, and she thrust them at Jenna without a glance.

Her prominent silence even persisted once Mr Moffat appeared at her side and began to speak words at her - which words they were, she knew not. She cared not. She was holding her tongue; that did not mean she was prepared to listen.

Her complete and utter lack of anything to say regarding what had happened during tonight's performance would, she presumed, speak volumes. 

Her point thusly made, she turned away from Moffat without acknowledging his efforts to placate and cajole. Keeping her head held high, and her features perfectly schooled, she swept off through the usual hustle and bustle backstage to her dressing room. 

Jenna followed quickly on her heels. "I'm sure nobody noticed," she said, the diminutive maid keeping pace a half-step behind her mistress. "Or if they did, I'm sure they didn't mind. Probably, ma'am, probably they only thought it part of the show."

With now only Jenna to hear, she found her voice again: "It isn't _opéra bouffe_ , dear," she said, in as mild a tone as she could manage.

She glanced round to give Jenna a smile and quell the girl's fretting. There; she felt quite calm, and quite under control.

Dame Alexandra Kingston - Dame Alex as she was fondly known to one and all - was certainly not _that_ sort of _prima donna_. Not like those deplorable few who gave them all a bad name. And this was not the Continent, either. Perhaps in Paris or Rome a principal could throw her weight around and make an entire opera company quake with the force of her temper. No indeed, she was a decent Englishwoman, and she had always striven to behave like one.

She felt she was doing remarkably well on that score here and now. Considering the circumstances.

Considering that her moving aria at the climax of the final act tonight had been ruined by some... _clumsy_ , idiotic, foolish, _oaf_ of a chorus-man who had tripped over her skirts and shoved her face-first into a papier-mache shrub... Well. 

Such was life on the stage. 

These things happened. She wasn't going to make a fuss. 

No matter how entirely warranted and perfectly justifiable it would be if she made one.

As soon as she was safely behind the door of her large, private dressing room, Jenna worked swiftly to help her remove the elaborate outer-layer of her dress. This left her with bare arms and feeling much lighter and more comfortable already, even with the great volume of underskirts and ruffles remaining, and beneath _them_ , her corset and crinoline keeping everything where it should be.

There was comfort to be had, too, in the little rituals following an appearance on stage, as the costume and finery were stripped away piece by piece. Here in the peace and quiet of her personal retreat she felt she might, after all, eventually, with enough time and care, recover from the humiliation she had experienced this evening. One could at least hope. 

She sat down at her dressing table and began removing her jewellery as Jenna carefully laid out her dress to air. 

"Any damage?" she asked, looking at the girl as she appeared behind her in the mirror.

"It looks fine, not even a little scuff."

"The oaf must have had clean shoes, at least. But you'd best take it down to Mrs Wilton after you help with my hair, they'll want to look it over. Be sure and tell them I've developed a sudden, great fear of trailing hems."

"Yes, ma'am."

With Jenna's assistance they managed to get her wig off, and then the netting that helped flatten the unruly curls beneath. They were just beginning to work on removing the pins, the little china dish on her table slowly filling, plink by plink, as each was produced from the mass of her hair, when there came a soft, tentative knocking on her door.

The next pin landed hard in the dish, with an accompanying huff. "Oh, who is that, now?"

Not Mr Moffat, surely - no, the opera master would rap loud as he pleased, announce himself, and then let himself in, no matter her state of undress. And anyone else would know not to bother her just now, when she'd barely been off stage for 10 minutes. 

Admirers, then. She often received visitors after a performance, though usually at some delay. Someone rich no doubt, or important, or both - enough so that they might readily be allowed passage down through the rabbit warren of corridors in the bowels of the opera house to her door. She was hardly in the mood to entertain guests - admiring or otherwise - but she sighed and nodded to Jenna to open the door.

She turned in her chair to see if the visitor was anyone important enough that she would have to rise - only to see it was not a visitor at all, and certainly no one important, since they were still in full stage costume that denoted the wearer as one of the chorus. 

It was a young man. He was in a footman's livery, tall but not too tall, and rather lanky, barely more than a youth. 

She didn't know his face. But then, during the incident in the final act tonight she had not caught a face, only a brief impression of large hands hastily helping her from the shrub and a flash of a powder-blue costume as he hastily retreated to whatever part of the stage he was _meant_ to be occupying.

She stared at the clumsy, idiotic, foolish oaf before her as he came in, bowed hastily, and began to speak rapidly, stuttering and stumbling over the words:

"Good evening, er, ma'am, Mr Moffat sent me to give a message, ma'am. He - he says that if you want t-t-to have me thrown out on my ear, then he will, er, happily comply with your wishes. How-however if you would be so good as to - to accept my _most humble_ apologies for my utter stupidity, ma'am, then he - Mr Moffat, that is, if you please, ma'am - then he will allow me to stay on."

"So, you're the one."

"Er, yes ma'am. Forgive me, ma'am, I -"

A sharp look and a slightly raised hand cut him off directly. Then she turned to her maid who was standing quietly by. "You should run down with the dress, now, Jenna love."

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned back to her mirror and removed the last few pins from her hair as Jenna swept up the dress and made her way out past the oaf, shutting the door quietly and leaving the two of them alone.

She shifted back round in her chair, then, and for a minute or two slowly and silently appraised the fellow from head to toe as he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, hands wringing behind his back and his head bowed - though he kept stealing glances at her from under his prominent brow.

She could see immediately why Moffat had sent him down to beg for her forgiveness in person. For the very same reason one would put puppies in a sack to drown them. If one had to _look_ at them while doing it...

She sat back in her chair and sighed. "Oh, very well, go on, then," she said.

"Ma'am?"

"You may grovel." 

She wasn't a shrew, or a tyrant. On the other hand, nor was she a saint. And he was quite a pretty one, in his footman's costume consisting of very tight britches and well-fitted waistcoat, with an ill-fitted powdered wig atop his head just a little off-centre. She wondered how he sang, and she continued to wonder about that, and other things, as she completely ignored the stuttering apologies that came pouring forth from his generous lips.

"What is your name, sir?" she interrupted his babblings at length.

"Smith, ma'am. Matthew Smith."

"Terrible name for the stage. Have you any hope of advancement, Smith?"

"Does not every soul here carry such hopes? Er, saving yourself, of course. Not - not that you shouldn't have any if you wanted them, I only meant that... there's no improving on perfection," he finished in a mumble.

She allowed herself to smile while he was too busy hanging his head and blushing to notice. "Of course. Well, Matthew Smith, since you have such pretty... manners," and legs, and eyes, and intriguingly long, elegant fingers... "I will consider the matter forgotten. Only mind your blocking next time, will you? There's a dear."

He bowed immediately, folding almost double, hands twisting as if he held a cap before him. "Oh, Dame Alexandra, ma'am, thank you, thank you, I'll not forget your kindness, and I'll never trouble you again. I declare, on my _life_ , you'll not see hide nor hair of me for the rest of my days, I'll be like - like unto one insignificant little corner of an uninteresting backdrop, practically invisible behind you as you lift the roof off this great building with your voice. Completely beyond your notice, ma'am."

She blinked, eyes wide. The boy certainly turned an interesting phrase once he got going. "No need to go so far, Smith. Just don't tread on my skirt again, and I'm sure we'll find we get along quite famously. It would be a shame if I never saw... _hide nor hair_ of you. I shouldn't mind seeing more of _both_ , come to think of it."

"Er. Ma'am?"

She smiled indulgently. "Go on then, they'll be wanting to close the men's dressing rooms soon, the hour has grown late."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am, a very good evening to you, I'll be - oh!" He bumped into a trunk on the floor as he turned, and while hopping away from it, jostled a table with several flower vases holding elaborate bouquets, and while frantically trying to steady _them_ , his elbow sent a silver bowl of sugared almonds crashing to the floor. The bowl spun noisily for several seconds before settling, replaced by a stunned silence that fell over the room. 

"...Apologies, ma'am?" 

She stared. Then she cleared her throat. "You'd best leave, I think, before you set something on fire next and kill us all. No!" Her hand shot up to forestall him when he would have spoken. More grovelling, no doubt. A lesson to take care for what one wished. "Don't speak, just go."

Looking quite mortified, he went.

After the door closed with him on the outside, she contemplated the floor, now dotted from one end to the other with the brightly-coloured confectionery. The young man was not gone ten seconds before she gave in, threw back her head, and laughed.


	2. Andante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [Da Tempeste il Legno Infranto from Handel's Giulio Cesare](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAOI9bnUCBE) \- the type of aria I imagine Alex singing in this chapter.

There were few more cogent reminders of one's station - or lack thereof - within the operatic hierarchy than a costume fitting. To be stripped, handled, measured and sized up like a side of beef in a butcher's window, and in a roomful of women, no less. A fellow's dignity must be shored up by forged steel to survive such treatment intact, and lately the dignity of one Matthew Smith teetered precariously on stilts of wilting reeds.

"Right, finished with you, clear out. Next!" bellowed Mrs Coduri, one of the seamstresses, opening the door to let the next poor soul in and shoving Matt out through it before he had even managed to get his shoes back on his feet. 

At least he had managed to seize his boots before being so summarily evicted; the rest of him was properly clothed, if dishevelled and half-untucked.

He stood still for a moment, getting his bearings, before shuffling away down the corridor to find a quiet spot further from the waiting queue, where he wouldn't be in anyone's way. This point in particular was something about which he was especially vigilant since the disastrous performance several days ago when he had almost ended his own career on the stage before it had barely even begun.

"Oh, Mr Smith!"

At the sound of his name he spun round in his stocking-feet, the consequence of which, taking into account the smooth, worn floorboards, was that he went round too far and ended up back where he started, facing the wrong way and lurching into a wall before catching himself. He turned again with a little less spin to it, and this time found himself looking down into the amused face of Dame Alexandra Kingston.

"Ma'am!" he squeaked, and then swallowed with difficulty. Would he forever be embarrassing himself in her presence?

Her eyes lowered to the boots clutched in his hands, and with a start he hastily bent to pull them on his feet.

"A fitting?" she remarked.

"Yes," he managed, almost toppling over as he found himself caught, staring at the violet satin tips of her dainty shoes, peeking out under the ruffled hem of her skirt. "Er yes! Yes, they're ah, they're quite busy in there just now."

"Well, there are such a lot of you boys." 

He straightened again, flushing hot to his ears under her direct gaze and wondering what in the wide world she was doing speaking to him. Perhaps, upon seeing him again, she had thought better of her decision not to have him dismissed, and was now merely observing niceties before calling to have him seized and thrown out in the street.

"Are you aware your trousers are unfastened?" she said.

"P-pardon?" he yelped, staring at her, and then staring down at himself in horror.

"And your waistcoat is buttoned all wrong."

He whirled away from her, frantically stuffing his shirt-tails properly in his gaping trousers and fumbling with the buttons.

"You look as if you've come from somewhere far more exciting than an appointment with the wardrobe madams. Though I suppose it depends on, well, for just what purpose, exactly, they wanted you."

"My apologies, ma'am," he gasped, now working on putting his waistcoat to rights, "I'm not fit to be seen."

"It's quite all right, Smith, the view isn't bad either way." She sounded highly amused, though he scarcely heard what she was saying, far too mired in misery at this latest humiliation.

Reluctantly, he turned back to face her and jumped, startled to find her closer than before. The hallway they occupied was narrow and his back hit the wall behind him, nowhere for him to go. The sweet, light scent of her perfume enveloped him at this close range, and he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs.

"And are they quite finished with you, now?" she went on. "The ladies in wardrobe, I mean."

"Yes, I believe so."

"How fortunate, you'll be free to lend me your assistance, then. Come with me." With that, she turned on her heel and departed, leaving him to watch stupidly for a few seconds before realising she expected him to follow.

He was fairly new to life as a chorus singer in the country's premiere opera house, but one thing he knew quite well, and that was when the _prima donna_ told someone to do something, that someone _did it_. Her word was on par with Mr Moffat, the company owner and director himself.

Dame Alex took him to one of the smaller rehearsal rooms, little occupying the space but a harpsichord that had seen better days, and here and there a few chairs and music stands. She waited for him to enter and instructed him to light the lamps while she closed the door and busied herself laying out music sheets over at the instrument. She beckoned him over and made him sit.

"I need someone to accompany me while I practice. I am giving a private salon for the Duke of Norfolk in a week's time, and I am terribly ill-prepared. You play, do you not?"

It was rather late to be asking the question only now, he thought. Of course his years of musical training had included the pianoforte, among other instruments besides his own voice. He stammered out an answer, looking up at her as she hovered by his shoulder. "Er, yes... a little, though not terribly well, I'm afraid."

"Mr Darvill usually helps me, but he is not to be found today. I'm sure you will suffice, Mr Smith." She pointed at the page. "Play."

He stared stupidly at the notes for several seconds until they resolved themselves into something recognisable, and his hands brought themselves to the keys at the correct positions - they knew what to do if the rest of him was rather more slow to catch up. It was Handel, not a piece he recognised, a fact he cursed as he began to play, falteringly at first, for his sight-reading along with his fingers were much out of practice.

She did not sing yet, watching him with a critical eye. She nodded after a minute, however, not seeming terribly displeased. "There. You have the hands of a musician."

"I'm out of practice, ma'am," he demurred. 

"That only speaks to your skill, as you would scarce know it. What other instruments, young Smith, might you handle with such proficiency?"

He fumbled a simple chord progression as she passed behind his back, what felt like one of her fingers trailing across his coat from one shoulder to the other. "Ma'am?"

"From the beginning, now, if you please."

He stopped, looking up to find her on the other side of the harpsichord, standing ready in the middle of the room. She arched an expectant brow at him, and he hastily ducked his head and started over again.

Then she sang, and oh, it was bewildering but, all the same, a privilege to be in her presence like this. He almost found it difficult to attend to the pages before him when all he wanted was to lift his head so that he might gaze at the woman from whose small figure was produced the most sublime sounds ever heard by the human ear.

There was no wonder she was so acclaimed. She had performed all over the Continent, but how grateful he was that England was her home, and that she was here now at Her Majesty's Theatre, providing him with the honour of standing with her on the same stage, night after night.

Well, it was an honour when he was not knocking her into set pieces during her very emotional finale. 

He was never going to live it down. He was one of the newest to the company, having not even worked one whole season, and already everyone knew his name on that basis alone. He had harboured some small hope, as did any young singer, of one day accruing some measure of fame for himself. 

_Notoriety_ , however, was not at all what he had been after. 

Still, there was one small benefit: Dame Alex had learned his name, too, and that had somehow brought him here, to play accompaniment - if badly - for her and to hear her sing.

"Glorious." The word escaped him without thought as the last notes of the aria faded quickly in the inadequate acoustics of the practice room.

She turned on him, looking unimpressed. "No, I cannot agree. The _fioritura_ was particularly rough."

"No, I cannot agree."

"Well, you are young, your ear is unrefined and your tastes poorly developed, so what would you know of it?"

A week ago he would have died of mortification to hear such words directed at him from the _prima donna's_ lips. Now he ducked his head to hide his smile. "Yes, ma'am."

He heard footsteps then, bringing her nearer. "Do you sing as well as you play, Smith?" She hooked her hands over the rim of the harpsichord's soundboard and leaned there, awaiting his answer.

"Uh... A little better than that, I hope, ma'am."

"You may call me Dame Alex, if you like. Most do."

He met her eyes in surprise over the music sheets. "Oh, er -"

"I should confess I've spoken of you with the chorus master. He says he was considering you for a solo in the review next month."

He gaped. "Really?"

She shrugged lightly, such news inconsequential to her, when for him it was world-changing. "Did you not know? You must sing a _little_ better, after all."

"I-I think I'm quite good?" It came out more a question than not.

She laughed. "I think that was very nearly a show of confidence, Mr Smith. It did not take much, did it?"

He flushed, but didn't lower his eyes. For whatever reason, she wished to speak with him, and this was perfectly fine with him. Especially as she had been the bearer of such fortuitous news. Being considered for a _solo_...

"Of course _I_ think I sing well," he said. "I did not know that anyone else had noticed. Well, my voice, that is. They have noticed me." He winced. He had not meant to allude to _that_ incident. 

But she waved her hand. "Oh, that trifling thing? They will forget. And you will go far, I think, Smith. You cut a dashing sort of figure, and if your voice is decent as you say - well, your name is not good, but after all, what's in a name?"

"You flatter me, ma'a - Dame Alex."

"Well, enough of that, then. _Da capo_ , if you please."

A little more familiar with the piece this time through, he was able to spare the odd glance up from the notes to catch sight of her as she sang.

He didn't know why she had approached him for help. The entire theatre and all its hundreds of denizens were at her beck and call and another accompanist could have been found for her at a moment's notice - any one of the musicians from the orchestra, certainly - if the usual man was not available. Surely she would prefer someone more competent, someone she knew better, or at the very least someone who had not recently humiliated her in public. 

But so long as she _had_ selected him, well then he would enjoy it. Not six feet from where he sat she stood singing, her voice soaring as if reaching for the heavens themselves, and his eyes drifted from the page before him to watch her again.


	3. Capriccio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [this duet from Marriage of Figaro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLtqZewjwgA), because Alex and Catherine Tate would be perfect in these roles - scheming and cracking up while singing about writing fake love letters with which to trick slimy, cheating husbands...

"Mr Smith!" Dame Alex's voice rang out across the busy stage. 

It was a full cast rehearsal, everyone in attendance, although currently Mr Moffat was conferring with the stage managers about some minutiae, and had been at it for long enough that the rest of the company as one had decided it was an official break and were milling about at their leisure. 

Alex watched as a tall head wove through the crowd in her direction, becoming lost for several moments amongst a group of lively ballet girls, and finally made its way to her side.

"You called, ma'am?" he said, his face very schooled and polite. 

He'd had many opportunities to practise that particular expression of late.

She smiled up at him. "Yes, I did."

"And is there something I might do for you?"

"There is. Just a very little thing, I assure you, if you would be so good...?"

"T'would be my pleasure, Dame Alex." His lips twitched, but he was too good now at this little game to falter.

"Then, I would consider it a great favour if you would run down to my dressing room and fetch my lace gloves. My hands are a little chilled, you see."

"Your hands are a little chilled?"

"Just a very little. Otherwise I would ask for my calf-skin gloves, instead, you see."

"I do see, yes. Perfectly well." 

"Jenna will give them to you, if she is there. If she has wandered off, I'm sure I left them on the dresser. Well, you'd best hurry, young man, I believe we may resume at any moment."

"Yes, ma'am, I will run as if the very dogs of hell were on my heels." If his tone had grown rather dry and impertinent, his bow was perfectly proper and could not be faulted.

She drew her small fan from her sleeve and began to idly flutter it under her chin. He hovered still a moment, till she lifted her eyes to his once more. "Off with you, then."

He went, and her eyes lingered on his back all the while he made his way off-stage.

She liked him, young Matthew Smith. In the beginning, she had liked him because he was young and pretty, and he amused her, but she had since found he had other features to recommend him. 

He looked at her with admiration on his face and hunger in his eyes, for all that she must be at least as old as his own mother. And there were few things so alluring as being whole-heartedly adored. Even after a lifetime on the stage, she had not grown tired of it. 

When considered from this angle, he had, in a way, brought it on himself.

She liked him, and so she made an errand boy of him, simply because she could. And because he was always willing and eager to provide her with anything she asked. 

If anyone wondered at this - well, she was the _prima donna_ , after all. She was entitled to her little fancies; they would naturally assume she was tormenting the lad for his grievous misdeed against her, sending him hither and thither till he was quite run off his feet between attending to her every whim while still attending rehearsals on time.

When he arrived back minutes later with her gloves, out of breath and colour heightened in a becoming manner, she made him fetch her a chair. And then another chair for Miss Tate, one of the company's soloists and her friend of many years, with whom she fell to talking during the interminable delay. 

Miss Tate was impressed as she took her seat. "I say, never occurred to me we might recruit a personal dogsbody from amongst the choir boys. What else can we make him do for us?"

Alex laughed, leaning her head towards the other woman's. "The mind races, does it not?"

"Oh, look at him fidget and blush, have pity on him."

"He's blushing because we're talking about him as if he were not present, and is too well-mannered to object."

"All men have their limit, Alex."

"Do they?" Alex tilted her head, considering the un-objecting object of their conversation. "He might reach his once he achieves manhood. Look at that face, can he be as many years as twenty, do you think?"

Miss Tate tapped a thoughtful finger on her chin. "He might be as many as twelve, I'll allow him that."

"As much as that? I'd give him nine at most."

"I suppose one might ask him. Or his mother, she'd be more like to know."

"Yes, surely she'll be about the place somewhere, too young to be out on his own."

"Is there anything," he burst out suddenly, "more that I might do for either of you... enchanting ladies while we wait?"

The two of them turned to look at one another, and then looked back at him with innocent expressions. 

"No, not at all."

"Not a thing."

"Then I will take my leave." He bowed shortly, turned, and fled, peals of laughter chasing after him.

"Were we ever that young?" Miss Tate wiped a tear from her eye.

Alex sighed. "Twice as young, if I recall correctly, but not half so tragic."

"That poor boy," Miss Tate said. "What horrid old women we are."

"He's far too green, Kate. He needs to harden his spirit - the opera will be a far more harsh mistress than I."

"Then it is all for his benefit, this treatment?"

Alex gave a shrug and her answer was shameless: "Not at all, it's for entirely my own amusement. That it benefits him is incidental, though he should thank me for it all the same."

"Well, we found his limit, there's that."

"Yes," Alex mused, "one of them, anyway."

"Larks, do you think any of us will ever sing again?" Miss Tate said. "Or shall we take tea here while we wait?"

"Just a moment, and I'll bring back the boy."

Miss Tate laughed as she shook her head. "Not an ounce of pity in you."

There was, of course, at least that much, but it would not do to reveal it too often. Not unless it was strictly necessary, and besides, the way Smith watched her at times - when he bowed, when he played for her, when she was sending him on another frivolous errand - she did not think it was her pity he wanted.

This provocative thought carried her through the remainder of the rehearsal, once it finally resumed, and stayed with her throughout the day, till she found herself once more in his presence. Which was, in fact, only a few short hours later, as she took some time to rest in her dressing room ahead of the evening's performance. 

For all of a sudden, there he was again, tapping on her door. He had brought a parcel just delivered for her. The parcel itself was not surprising; she received more mail here at the theatre than she did at her own home. But that it was passed to her hands from his was new.

He bowed grandly, as she took it with raised brows. "Is there not a boy who could have brought this?"

"There is some understanding about the place that you have one _particular_ boy at your beck and call." He ducked his head, smiling. "The delivery was directed straight to him."

She laughed. "Oh dear, you must run away and hide next time. You have my leave to do so - only I get to treat you as my servant."

"I have been in the chorus but one season; most of the servants here are above my station." 

She didn't respond, having looked down at the package and knowing instantly whose hand it was that had so carefully written the address. Quickly she went to her dressing table to open it, eagerly pulling off the string and brown paper. 

Inside was a bundle of thick cloth, and a small, folded letter, too. The letter she opened first, scanning the few paragraphs quickly before laying it aside to peruse more closely later, then she opened the bundle with care. The cloth revealed itself to be a sampler: the Lord's Prayer in German, with a floral border. She traced reverent fingers over the stitching, wondering how long it must have taken her.

"It's lovely."

She had almost forgotten him there by the door, waiting politely to be dismissed. She held up the sampler so he could better see it - and she could better show it off. "It's from my daughter. I've been asking how she has been getting on with her embroidery."

"Oh." The simple utterance held a world of questions, and she wondered how much he knew of her private affairs. Well, what _should_ be her private affairs, but were instead quite public. It was no secret, for instance, that she lived separately from her husband, and had for several years now. 

"She is only ten, my Sally. She is staying with her father's family in Hamburg at present." Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away. Even now it was difficult to speak of, but she wasn't going to start weeping in front of the man.

He offered a gentle reply: "I don't think my sister had anywhere near such a fine hand for sewing at ten."

She beamed, awkwardness forgotten in the light of someone praising her child. 

"Oh, and I have a letter for her, nearly finished," she spoke up as she remembered. "Would you wait a moment longer and take it up for the evening post? I will write quickly, but I must add a few more paragraphs to shower her with admiration without delay. Hamburg seems so far, and even with these new steam ships, our letters take so long to reach one another."

She went to her writing desk and took out the letter, already several pages long. She began a new line with the day's date and poured forth all her maternal pride, her hand moving swiftly across the page. 

At the corner of her eye, he began to fidget. Several times in quick succession he looked up to the clock upon the shelf. 

"Am I keeping you, Mr Smith?"

"No, ma'am."

She consulted the clock herself, and found it later than she had realised. "Do you not have chorus practise in ten minutes? I heard them announce it today at the cast meeting."

"I will wait for your letter. You do write very quickly."

"All right, but then I must find you the money, and I am forever misplacing my coinpurse."

More minutes passed, and finally she signed off with loving words, and blew on the ink to dry before folding the pages and reaching for an envelope. She knew by heart how to correctly address it.

By the time she rose to find her purse - happily it was only buried beneath a shawl on her dressing table and not too difficult to locate - the time had grown very late, and she shook her head, tutting at him still waiting at her leisure. 

Miss Tate had accused her of being heartless, but if that were true she would not feel so touched at his gallantry. Or so guilty. She had really been quite terrible to him of late, and he had borne it all with such good humour. 

When he put out his hand for the letter she held it back. "You should not be late on my account, go to your appointment. Someone else will take this for me. Jenna is out doing some shopping for me, but there's no shortage of those who will do my bidding about the place, it needn't be you."

He did not lower his hand. "Then I will pass it off to the first idle servant I see, by order of our leading lady."

"Will you?" She wasn't sure she believed him, though he nodded earnestly. She put the coins first in his hand, and then the letter, but did not release it once his fingers had grasped it. "You will be late," she warned.

"I'm already late, one more minute either way will make little difference."

She let go of her end of the envelope and gave a little shrug. Singular man. "All right, as you wish. You'd best run, anyway."

He bowed, turned, and had already reached the door when the notion overtook her:

"Wait! Tarry one second more for me, if you please." She crossed the room to where he stood, one hand paused on the door handle, his eyes questioning and, only now, a tiny hint impatient. "Mr Smith... It does not escape my notice that you are doing me a great service. It is very kind of you, and I feel I must reward you."

She stepped closer, and again closer, till he had to turn to face her fully, his back pressed to the door as she stepped even closer still, her bosom brushing his front.

His eyes stared down at her, open very wide indeed.

"A kiss, perhaps," she said, and had the pleasure of watching his face flush pink as she leaned up on her toes, taking his ears in her hands to bring his head down, for clearly he had not the presence of mind to do so himself. And then she fitted her mouth sweetly to his.

She released him just as quickly as she had seized him, returning her heels to the floor and stepping back, and he bent over to follow her retreat as if yearning for more, before realising what he was doing and snapping straight back up to attention.

"Thank you, ma'am," he squeaked out, his hand scrabbling behind him for the door handle, and then he was gone.

She smiled to herself as she put her head out the door to watch him fly off down the corridor, the precious missive clutched in his fist. 

It should be noted that there was not any one precise moment in time when she decided she would seduce young Mr Smith. The intention was already there, fixed in her mind, before she ever gave the notion any serious consideration.

There was no _should I_ or _perhaps_ , but only _how shall I_ and _why not_.

Her smile widened as she tapped one finger there against the lips that had just touched his. Why not, indeed.


	4. Da Capo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: this duet, [Un di felice, eterea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5QHoksdErk) from La Traviata.

"I've never had my name on a playbill before."

"And you haven't yet, either. You're only understudy," said Miss Gillan as she peered over his shoulder whilst munching, in an unladylike fashion, on a pear.

"For now. And _first_ understudy, if you please." It was quite the promotion from lowly second-understudy to one of the principals, Mr Paul McGann, a tenor who was recently on sabbatical from the company. Everyone had moved up and now, as first understudy, there was a real possibility of him performing solo. Unlike second-understudies, who never did anything but learn their parts and dream.

He continued to smile broadly at the playbill, imagining his name there in grand swirls of ink - though not as grand as the two-inches-high lettering proclaiming _Dame Alexandra Kingston_ in the title role.

He squinted a little lower down the page. "Is that really how one spells 'Karenina'?" he said. "Should there not be another 'N' somewhere, Miss Gillan?"

Miss Gillan had shed her given name in favour of one more suited to a career on the stage. She had not done so with her manner of speech, and in her thick Scottish brogue, said, "I know very well how it should be spelt, thank you sir, since it is the name I gave to my own self."

It was only when she sang that all signs of her connection to the northern regions fell away entirely. No one who heard her German or Italian would think anything amiss. This was a fact for which he was grateful, for they had been instructed to prepare a duet, a new piece, the two of them together, with the implication that he, Matthew Smith, first-understudy, might indeed find his way onto a playbill in the near future.

The end of the season was approaching, the opera would see its last full performances in the coming weeks, but there were public reviews, less grand affairs, to be held throughout the quiet months to come. The _ton_ would have deserted London, but there would be no shortage of audience to keep the money rolling in till the Christmas concerts and the new year arrived once again.

"Matthew Smith," he murmured, tracing with his finger where his name might fit, there beneath _Alexandra_.

Miss Gillan sat back on her knees, her nose wrinkling in disapproval. "You really should change it, it won't do at all."

"You will have no say in the matter, Miss _Karenina_ ," he said, but before the argument could go further, the door of the practice room swung inward and Mr Darvill entered in a hurry, apologising for his late arrival.

The man barely took note of the two of them sprawled like a pair of children on the floor, simply hurried to take his seat at the instrument in the corner as Matt hastily stood and took Miss Gillan's hand to help her up.

"Are you sufficiently warmed up?" Darvill asked.

The two singers shared a guilty look. 

"Er, a few scales, perhaps?" Matt said, while Miss Gillan tried hastily to fit the last of her pear in her mouth.

"Very well." Darvill set his hands to the keys but played only a note before stopping with a sigh. "Miss Gillan, when you are quite finished."

It was a very juicy pear, the sound of mastication unmistakeable in the small space.

Matt tried not to laugh too much as she swallowed, picked at a tooth, and then turned to smile winningly at the waiting musician. "Ready," she piped cheerfully, and finally they began. 

Their voices tripped up and down scales and arpeggios, his tenor quite well-matched, he thought, to her fine, clear soprano. After a few minutes preparation they moved on to their duet, and they passed the next half-hour dutifully enough, for all their rough beginnings.

As they came again to the end of the piece, their last time through from start to finish, there was a pause as the notes died away and then he and Miss Gillan turned to each other smiling, for surely she felt, as did he, that it was beginning to come together quite well. 

They both jumped then, as there came a sudden burst of applause from the doorway.

"Well, my young friends, what have we here? A grand performance, fit for Her Majesty's Theatre, to be sure." Dame Alex made her entrance and he fairly snapped to attention as her keen eye ran over the pair of them. The atmosphere was so tense all of a sudden he could scarcely breathe. "What a fine couple you do make - don't you agree, Mr Darvill?"

Mr Darvill, who had jumped to his feet, gave a bow and sat back down again. Lucky man, he was able to hide behind his music book.

She turned her attention then to Miss Gillan, who was fidgeting beside him.

He had to fight a sudden urge to step back out of the way; the rivalry between sopranos was the stuff of legends, and he admired Dame Alex - and was coming to like Miss Gillan - too much to be at all comfortable if caught between them if there was going to be war.

It was a passing thought and an uncharitable one, as Dame Alex came forward instantly to take Miss Gillan's hands with a smile as if they were the best of friends. He filled with shame to have thought her capable of such pettiness.

"Karen, dear, I declare you sound sweeter every time I hear you. And you have taken on our young Mr Smith, now, how good of you."

"On the Director's word, not mine, though he's not too bad, our _young_ Mr Smith." Miss Gillan, whom it should be noted was several years his junior, sent him a mocking glance as she spoke. 

He paid little mind to the jibe, too busy wondering if he was going to be noticed at all standing by while the two ladies began chatting about the duet they were rehearsing. "We were just finishing," he broke in when he could.

Dame Alex held up a hand. "Oh no, no, I only just caught the end - I must hear it over again. _Da capo_ , Mr Darvill. And Smith, it is not a race to the finish line, no need to go galloping ahead. You were off tempo in the last passage and I will cuff your ear if I hear that again."

He gulped and wondered if she was in jest, but her stern look did not falter. 

He looked to Miss Gillan in alarm but her lips were pressed to hide a smile, no help for him in that quarter. There was nothing for it but to sing, and pay _very_ close attention to his timing.

The harpsichord sounded again and they began.

She was neither a friend nor a rival, then, but a stern taskmaster; she took them through the piece entirely twice more and then picked out every weak point as if with a fine-toothed comb, and then had them start again. It was exhausting and more than a bit terrifying working under her tutelage, but with her every instruction he felt himself improve, and when she finally seemed satisfied - enough to release the three of them from under her critical eye - he was quite proud of the hour's work.

Mr Darvill bobbed his head and left in a hurry, pulling his watch from his waistcoat - probably he was now late to his next appointment, though he had not said a word. Miss Gillan, too, escaped after thanking their unexpected music master with the type of pretty manners she rarely showed to lowly denizens such as himself. 

Then he was left to escort Dame Alex out - and he realised belatedly that she had never explained her original purpose in seeking them out here. Perhaps, he thought, she had been seeking an accompanist again.

"Did you want to rehearse, yourself?" he asked as she took his arm and steered him to the door. 

"No, I wanted you." She spoke the words close to his ear, and then she left his side to skip out into the corridor ahead of him. "Come then, Smith, I need you in my dressing room," she announced for all the world to hear - and there were always people about, and many faces turned to watch them pass as he stumbled after her through the doorway and hurried to catch up.

"Ma'am?" 

"There is a drawer stuck."

"A drawer."

"Yes, I have a stuck drawer for you to look at. My favourite slippers are in it, I want you to see if you might un-stick it for me."

She was the most outrageous liar of a woman he had ever encountered. The most _shameless_ \- the most _singular_ \- oh, how he adored her.

He stared at the back of her head with its wild, tawny curls escaping their pins every which way. "I will do my best," he said, somehow, in a passingly even tone.

Then he shut his mouth and followed after her dutifully, head lowered but everything else... rising: his expectations, his very lifeblood, and other things. 

She had kissed him a week ago. That was how it had begun.

Twice since then she had come upon him at unexpected moments, had lured him away on the grounds of some pretence or other, off to some secluded corner about the place, and plied him with kisses, each time leaving him breathless and wanting, if rather a little confused, and ever the more enamoured of her. Leaving him in such a state seemed to be her newest diversion; she seemed to enjoy nothing better than bewitching him with her many charms and reducing him to a stammering, bumbling fool.

He didn't know what he had done to find such favour in her eyes. Except that he seemed to amuse her, that much was clear.

Following at her heels, he kept his eyes on the swaying hems of her skirts and wondered how he might entertain her next.


	5. Tenuto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows directly on from the last chapter. Soundtrack: [Sempre Libera, aria from La Traviata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KUc9HWAr90).
> 
> Er, general reminder to keep in mind that the rating on this fic is 'explicit'. No particular reason... *cough*

"Come then, Smith," she announced as he followed her from the practice room, "I need you in my dressing room." 

"Ma'am?" 

She smiled to herself as he tripped and stumbled over his own feet to catch her up as she swept along the hallway, here and there other opera folk hastily moving out of the way to allow her to pass. "There is a drawer stuck."

"A drawer."

"Yes, I have a stuck drawer for you to look at. My favourite slippers are in it, I want you to see if you might un-stick it for me."

He cleared his throat, and seemed to have recovered his composure somewhat. "I will of course do my best."

Presently he walked at her back, not two steps behind, tantalisingly close. She imagined she could feel his breath on her nape, stirring the curls there. Just the thought quite made her heart race.

When she had sought him out earlier she had not thought to find him there like that, singing a duet with the lovely young Miss Gillan. The girl was a rising star, and Alex liked her very much, though she was grateful she was yet so young - only twenty and not at her peak. With a few years more experience, once her voice matured, she could be a true rival.

But it was not, of course, Miss Gillan who was the focus of her attention in that room.

It was the first time she had heard _his_ voice. He was better than she had expected. And hearing him like that, and watching him with Miss Gillan, her head fairly overflowed with ideas. Some of them quite salacious - but those she had put away for the time being, as she could not resist the opportunity to play teacher to two eager young pupils.

Now, though, was time for other opportunities to be explored. Once they reached her dressing room and she had him behind closed doors, she turned the key in the lock and heard him draw in a quick breath behind her. 

"Here," she said, moving past him to where a decanter sat on a tray, "will you wet your throat? You must be parched after all that work."

She poured for him, and he came to her side and took the wine and thanked her, drinking deeply, his eyes meeting hers intently over the rim of the cup. It was true, he no longer fretted quite so much when alone with her, compared to only a week ago when she had first kissed him and he could barely look her in the eye without blushing. The way he was watching her right now was, in fact, downright forward. 

He was about to put that cup down and embrace her, she could tell, and so she turned away to look in her mirror and fuss with her hair.

"It's over there," she said, indicating a chest across the room. "Second lower drawer on the left."

"Pardon?"

"The drawer," she said slowly, the very picture of patience, "that is stuck."

"The - you really mean for me to - but -" he stopped there.

"Did you think I wanted you for something else?"

She watched in the mirror as he turned on his heel and marched over to the chest. 

So obedient. She quite adored him.

Leaving her smirking reflection in the glass, she went and sat on her velvet chaise and for a minute simply watched him bow his head over his work, rattling away at the stubborn drawer.

"Mr Smith?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever bedded a woman?"

He froze, and she watched him in profile, noting particularly the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

"Shocking of me to ask so bold a question," she went on.

"Do you expect me to answer it?"

"Your modesty does you credit, I'm sure."

Just as she was sure, not only from this reaction, that he was quite the innocent. When she kissed him he was willing, but rather unskilled. She didn't mind - if he took direction as well in bed as he did in all else, then she had the very highest of hopes for him. She felt she could do much with such a promising student. 

Contrary to commonly held belief - as established by the society pages, in which her name not infrequently appeared connected to that of some notable gentleman or other - Dame Alex Kingston had not had dozens of lovers. 

In fact, if she did not consider either one of her husbands - and really, she did prefer not to consider them - then the number of men she had taken to her bed was countable on the fingers of one hand alone. She had always been careful, there. A certain hint of notoriety might add to her glamour, but a string of public, sordid affairs would do her career little good. 

Oh, she had been merry enough in her day, not least following the passing of her first husband, who had lived just long enough past their wedding day to let her know how sorely he regretted it. But such was the way of men; the honeymoon bed was scarce grown cold before they were off seeking to warm the sheets of another. 

Newly widowed, she had just been establishing her career, and she flirted and charmed where she could, and allowed herself to be wooed and courted where she liked. Rumour and gossip followed in her wake, but true scandal she had managed to avoid, for the most part. Eventually she had married again - a very advantageous match, to a Viscount no less, bringing with it a title, money, respectability, and a most beloved child. Only those first two had she already possessed, for she earned her own living, and the Queen herself had bestowed the knighthood upon her. 

As the wife of a Viscount, she was formally known as Lady Haertel, but she had always preferred the lesser title she had earned for herself. Perhaps her unwillingness to take her second husband's name publicly should have been a sign. She had not considered it then, so sure of her decision to marry that man...

Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

She was many years older and many errors committed the wiser now. She knew much better what it was she wanted from a man, what might be accepted if offered, and what must be refused.

It was this very point that made a young man like Matthew Smith quite attractive: he had nothing to offer her, and was therefore in no position to make demands. He could not harm her. But what he might _do_ for her, and she for him, that was another matter.

He was well on his way to fixing her furniture, for instance. Despite her interruption he was continuing very seriously his attempts at opening the drawer, although now with that familiar, fetching touch of colour to his cheeks.

He straightened suddenly. "Might you have a -" he looked around the room, and crossed to her writing desk where he took up a silver letter-opener.

Not a minute's more work and he had the drawer open.

"Well, fancy that. I already knew you were good with your hands, Smith, but now I am truly impressed. Jenna tried for ten minutes this morning to no avail."

"It was your slippers you wanted, was it not?" He took a pair of red satin from the drawer and brought them over to present to her with a bow.

She leaned back and wordlessly extended a foot. 

He sank to one knee before her, and set down the slippers so that he could unlace her half-boot. She imagined his fingers unlacing her corset as deftly, and as if hearing her thought in the heavy silence, he glanced up at her from under his brow in that way of his, and oh, if she thought his eyes smouldering _before_.

The boot was tugged from her foot and he slid the slipper with care back in its place. His hands warm and daring on her ankle, he lowered her foot to rest on his bent knee, and she lifted the other to receive the same treatment.

She didn't know precisely when he noticed she had begun to lift her skirts, only that it took him a lot longer to unlace the second boot, and his hands trembled as he fitted the slipper on her stockinged foot.

It was so quiet she could hear his breathing quicken over the whispering of her skirts as she drew them, slowly, little by little, up her legs. 

His hands followed, as she had hoped they would, trailing up her shins as they were revealed. He looked up once, seeking silent permission; she granted it with a wicked smile, and he accepted the invitation to reach further, searching amongst layer after layer of frilly petticoats till he found her knees. He grew bolder then, fingers sliding up under her bunched skirts, tracing the garters at the top of her silk stockings, and then, finally, finding her bare thighs.

At his touch on her skin she let her knees fall open, and he drew in a sharp breath, his head bent almost in her lap and her skirts now bunched to her waist.

"Is that your scent? I can smell you."

"Yes," she said, "oh yes," and ran her fingers into his hair, drawing him down, and in.

His palms were pressed to her thighs, and he licked his lips as he hesitated, eyes flickering back up to her before dropping to stare once again at her revealed cunt.

"I..."

She pressed down on his head. "Kiss me, darling. No," she said when he would have come back up, " _there_. Use your tongue on me. If you make a decent job of it, I might let you use your cock next time."

He seemed willing enough, judging by the bulging of his trousers, and yet he still hesitated and this time she didn't urge him on, instead cupping his face in her hands. 

"Are you afraid of me?" she said.

The apprehensive look on his face fled in an instant at her words, replaced by indignation. He had a man's pride, after all. "Indeed no," he said, pulling his face from her grasp, and then he fairly dove between her legs. 

She gasped at the first touch of his face against her, his sharp chin and fine nose, his sensual mouth, and then she settled back in the corner of the lounge with a pleased hum, parting her knees obscenely wide and petting his hair in approval. She had been brimming with want since he first took hold of her foot - since first they came into the room together. Since days past. 

He was unused to such intimacies, that was apparent, but what he lacked in knowledge was made up for by his equally apparent eagerness to know. His first taste of a woman seemed to please him well enough as there came a muffled, lusty groan from under her skirts and he fell to lapping at her like a cat, her thighs trembling under his hands as his tongue laved at her most sensitive places.

She laughed weakly, her head falling back. "Yes, darling, yes like that, but a little more, harder and - oh! There! Oh my, yes, that's delightful, just like that, oh you wonderful boy. And now your fingers - fuck me with your fingers. Here."

She took his hand from her leg to guide him. His mouth fell away from her as he drew back to watch, his breath catching as she pressed his fingers deep into her cunt with her own. 

"Yes, that's the way," she purred her approval, as he began to move them, getting the feel of her. They were long and excellently suited to the task, those fingers of his. She throbbed around the exploring digits as they worked deeper, and withdrew and thrust in again.

"You are a marvel," he murmured, and she laughed again.

"My darling, you've no idea. Now do carry on. Your tongue again, Smith, must not grow lazy."

He attended her every direction, her obliging young lover. It was the most delicious pleasure, riding out her climax like that, his devouring mouth and graceful hands working her to a shuddering frenzy. She moaned and gripped his head as she peaked, taking everything he gave, shameless in her lustful abandon.

He emerged red-faced and tousle-haired after, and sat back on his heels with a pleased if rather dumb-struck expression on his features. 

She laughed breathlessly for a moment, sprawled there in a debauched fashion against the back of the lounge. But once recovered sufficiently she sat forward and encouraged him back up off his heels as she opened the front of his trousers and he turned his face down to watch with growing interest.

She reached in for his stiff member, finding him of decent size and girth as she ran light fingers over him. He bucked into her touch with a gasp.

"This shall not take long," she observed cheerfully, as she shifted the trousers down off his hips, pushed his shirt out of the way, and took him back in hand. 

He put out his hands to her still-parted knees to hold himself steady as her hands grasped and pulled at him. His mouth fell open in a soundless groan.

"Well," she mused then with a shrug, "I suppose it is only fair." And besides, she wanted to taste him.

She gripped him at the root and bent down to take him in her mouth, an oath falling from his lips above as she did. He dripped salty on her tongue as she sucked on the tip of him and then slid him down her throat as far as he would go. 

It proved all too much for him, as but a few seconds later he gave a hoarse cry and spent himself between her open lips.

She stroked and sucked him through it, and once he was flaccid again in her hand she pressed a kiss to the tip of him, before looking up to grant him a wicked grin as she tucked him back in his britches.

Now she was the one pleased with herself. He remained, however, altogether dumb-struck. Swaying slightly there on his knees before her, clothes askew, he made quite the pretty picture. 

"May I kiss you?" he said raggedly, and she reached up for his face and brought him down eagerly to meet her mouth.


	6. Duet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [Brindisi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZUonmbtVQo), basically Dame Alex's house on a Saturday night.

Dame Alexandra Kingston kept a much better table than he was used to. At the small boarding house where he hung his hat, he was lucky to get dry roast beef and limp carrots for his Sunday dinner.

There was, to be sure, a great deal about Dame Alex that he was not used to. Her house was rather grand, though it was comfortably rather than ostentatiously appointed, and among her friends were far more important personages than with whom he was accustomed to breaking bread. 

He felt rather out of place. He had borrowed a better jacket and clean cravat from his neighbour across the hall, who was a tailor's apprentice, so he was at least dressed appropriately, though his attire was not as fine as some. He was seated according to the usual rank and station, left to look down along the lengthy stretch of place settings to see her, holding court at the head of the table whist a Member of the House to her left and a Marquis to her right took turns prompting her to laughter.

At least here, at his end of the table, he was amongst familiar faces. Miss Gillan was to his right, and Madam Sladen, the ballet mistress, was to his left, and beside her sat Mr Moffat, given the place of honour opposite his opera's leading lady. 

The company was genial, the conversation lively, but he felt conscious of an occasional glance in his direction. He was a newcomer to their social circle, and they would be wondering who he was, and what he was doing there.

He had no answer to give them; the lady herself had told him to come, and so here he was.

Perhaps that in itself was the answer. As she was fond of reminding him, she was entitled to her eccentricities, and expected her whims and fancies to be indulged by one and all. He wondered at times if she even recalled the last instance of someone refusing her something.

He was here by her whim, as one of her latest fancies. And it was for him, as well as everyone else present, to indulge her.

Dinner itself passed easily enough for him, however, and he was not been so self-conscious that he was unable to enjoy each excellent dish served. It was only later that discomfort found him.

Almost as soon as they were all gathered together in the drawing room there were calls for the hostess to grant them with a song. She turned them all down flat, insisted she would not be prevailed upon to perform under her own roof, and if anyone felt inclined to hear her they could pay Mr Moffat for the privilege some four nights a week.

Moffat cheered heartily this pronouncement, causing much laughter.

Eyes sparkling, Dame Alex then turned to address Miss Gillan.

"Karen, my dear, you would not mind taking my place, would you? Come to think on it, have you not been preparing a particularly charming duet with young Mr Smith, lately? Perhaps you both would grant us the pleasure."

Standing out of the way behind a couch, he almost choked on a mouthful of port as her eyes landed on him. Her gaze was followed by that of half the room - half the room that he had never seen before in his life at that, and before whom he was now, apparently, required to give an impromptu private performance.

"We'd be happy to, wouldn't we, Smith?" Miss Gillan said, rising from her seat.

He coughed, stammered, but could not say no.

He had not been prepared to sing tonight. He was not sure he even remembered the words. He silently fretted and perspired as Mr Darvill dutifully took a seat at the pianoforte and he found himself too quickly standing beside Miss Gillan as guests gathered and turned chairs to make a proper audience. 

He caught Alex's eye only once at this stage. She regarded him with an expression of mild interest, a polite sort of smile on her lips. But there was a certain glint in her eyes he felt was meant just for him, giving him the impression there was nothing mild about her interest. There was a hint of warning there, too, as if she would do worse than box his ears this time if he failed to meet her exacting standards.

It was nerve-wracking, but it was exhilarating, too. More intimate than the stage, but far more terrifying than being prompted by his mother to sing for his relatives after suppers at home. 

That it was _her_ , his mistress, Dame Alex doing the prompting added to the excitement. Her attention was - at this time as much as any other - as bracing as it was intimidating. He wanted to impress her, but more than that, he wanted to please her. And though he performed with another, it was not Miss Gillan in his mind's eye as he sang the words of passionate admiration and love. 

There was applause enough amongst the gathered guests once the performance was over. Faces around the room seemed more approving than not, and more than one gave him private words of praise or encouragement once he retreated from the centre of attention for a less conspicuous place near a potted fern where he could have a glass of port and gather his wits back about him. He did not think he had acquitted himself too badly, but he felt not as well as he should or _could_ have done, had he any warning. 

The sound of a lively minuet filled the room then, as Mr Darvilll took up playing for their entertainment at the Dame's insistence. Miss Gillan placed herself at his shoulder - to turn the pages so she claimed, but she seemed more keen on distracting him with cheerful insults and turning the pages the wrong way.

The evening passed on well enough from there. It was an interesting group, Bohemians brushed elbows with politicians, dandies with dignified matrons, and denizens of the stage with one and all. He found himself speaking for some time with a man he had taken as a vicar, but whom he discovered to be the manager for Dame Alex's upcoming exhibition tour abroad. 

Not five minutes after begging leave of Mr Glen, Matt was returning from a visit to the WC when he was abruptly yanked from the middle of the hallway by a hand closing on his wrist. He near came off his feet, stumbling sideways into an alcove under the stairs and coming up against something soft and pliable and heavily perfumed.

Lips found his and arms wound up about his neck and he stood stunned for a few seconds before he realised what was happening, and then he pressed himself to her as readily as she was to him, humming with surprise and pleasure as her mouth opened under his and he tasted sherry and chocolate on her tongue.

All too soon she pulled away, his eyes drawn down to the daringly low neckline of her dress as she breathed quickly and her bosom heaved in a most attractive way. 

"Make yourself scarce," she murmured near his ear, "later, when everyone is taking their leave. Stay behind. They won't notice in all the bustle."

He managed a nod, words escaping him.

She reached up and smoothed fingers over his hair, rubbed a smudge of rouge from his nose, straightened his cravat; making him fit for company again, he assumed. 

"Go on, then. Oh, I can't wait to get them all out of here. I want you all to myself." With these words she turned him and gave him a push out of their hiding place, back in the direction of the drawing room. 

She rejoined the soiree some ten minutes later, picking up her role as hostess with ease, with her lively manners and generous laughter ensuring everyone was entertained and comfortable. But it was no more than an hour after that when she began to mention a slight headache, and feeling just a little tired, and sure enough guests began to politely agree it was growing late and they should make their way home.

He meant to do as she said, had definite notions of escaping down the back hall towards the kitchens, perhaps, or concealing himself in a closet when no one was looking his way. But when the last group of guests were moving to depart he found himself swept along with them, Mr Moffat himself clapping a hand on his shoulder and ushering him out to the foyer while speaking animatedly - and rather drunkenly - in his ear about the benefits of malt liquor on the vocal instrument. 

He could not escape, was already there at the open door, and sent a helpless glance in Alex's direction as a servant presented him with his cloak and hat - but she wasn't even looking his way. Mr Darvill was at his side then, asking if he wanted to share a hansom cab as their lodgings were on the same street, and he attempted to conceal his misery as he was forced to agree. What further misery was in store for him on the morrow, having disappointed his mistress tonight?

To say nothing of his own disappointment. What if she was so angered she resolved to never have him in her sight again? What if she had him dismissed and he never found work again? Worse - what if she never allowed him to embrace her and kiss her and look on her lovely face or hear her joyful laugh...

So immersed in thoughts of a future where he lived the life of a wretched cur, penniless, in a poorhouse probably, desolate and un-kissed for the rest of his days, as Darvill escorted him down the steps to the street, he almost missed a voice calling his name.

"Mr Smith! Oh, Mr Smith, oh, there you are, would you mind -"

He turned, wild-eyed, to find her in the doorway, shaking her hanky at him to gain his attention, and he quickly retook the steps up to the door in two great leaps. "Did you want me, ma'am?"

"Indeed. Run after Mrs McIntosh, will you - I think she walked in that direction, she lives but two streets from here. Ask her for me if she will be home to receive visitors tomorrow afternoon, or the next day, for I intend to pay her a call. And come back at once with her answer, the air is brisk and I do not wish to stay here on the doorstep all night."

To anyone else, she might have appeared cold as she ordered him about as one hardened officer might a lowly footsoldier, but her eyes - oh, her eyes were anything but cold, there were smouldering embers burning for him, and him alone, in their depths.

There were cabs drawing up before the house as he turned, and Darvill stood expecting him.

"Do not wait on me," he told the man. "It seems Dame Alex has not yet released me from service, and I do not know how long I'll be about this errand."

They tipped hats and bid goodnight and he made off in the direction he had been told, as behind him the last straggling guests departed. Whether he was able to locate Mrs McIntosh or not, by the time he returned they would all be gone.

With some good fortune he did locate Mrs McIntosh as she walked home with her companion, Miss Stewart. Both ladies had the grace not to be affronted when a young man came pelting out of the night down the footpath after them. He made his return journey at a slower pace, lingering at street-corners and dawdling as if merely out for a late evening constitutional. 

The street was quiet when he once again found himself outside her townhouse with its smart black ironwork, shining brass knocker and plate gleaming against the blue-painted door.

The door itself stood ajar, a servant waiting there to close and lock it upon his entrance. He'd never made a visit such as this: entering a woman's home alone at such an hour. He'd been so intent on achieving his goal that it only occurred to him now, catching the servant's eye, to blush. 

The servant, blank-faced, acknowledged him with a small bow and an outstretched hand indicating the stairs. "Sir." 

He blushed hotter still and tried not to trip himself on his way up. 

Embarrassed but uninjured, he found his way along a silent hall to the only open door, warm light spilling out into the dimly-lit passageway.

It was a large, luxurious bedroom, satins and rich brocades and other finery from one side to the other. But he had only eyes for her. She was seated at her dressing table, taking down her hair, but as he closed the door carefully behind him she saw him and rose to come straight over to him, hands outstretched to take his.

"Here you are. Well, are you well-pleased with the night's work?"

He blinked. "What work?"

"You sang very well, I deem it a great success."

He'd all but forgotten the impromptu performance. "Oh, yes, why did you have me sing? There were others, better, present - and I was not prepared, I - I - I truly I was not at my best and I -"

"Foolish boy," she cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips and a throaty purr. She began to walk backwards, drawing him further into the room. "Do you not understand? My drawing room tonight was visited by several of the company's most loyal and generous patrons. Men and women of influence, you understand. And Moffat was there, well-fed and watered, in as generous spirit as the man ever could be. And with Miss Gillan you did make such a pretty pair, you could have been hoarse as a billygoat and still they would have found you charming. Almost as charming as do I."

"You planned all this? For me?"

"Well why shouldn't I do what I can? Should I not have?"

"I would have much rather sung with you." He spoke the words in all sincerity, but she put her hands to her mouth and laughed out loud.

"Oh my darling, you are not ready for me. I wanted my friends to notice you, remember."

She continued to laugh till he seized her waist and she gasped as he pulled her to him. "I am ready."

"Oh my. Are you?"

He kissed her in reply, because he was. Yes, _yes_ he was. His thoughts now were only of her; of having her. For what other reason was he here, in her bedroom, in the middle of the night? There was the large bed waiting for them; no hurried fumbling in her dressing room where they might be interrupted at any moment.

She moaned her approval of his kiss, mouth pliant under his. Her hands swiftly pulled open his jacket and slid inside, moving over his sides and his back. Then one questing hand came round in front again, slipping between them to press his hardened length. 

She laughed into his mouth. "You feel quite ready." He pulled her against him, hands bunching in the fine silk of her skirts and she turned in his arms so her back was against his front. "Help me out of my dress?" 

There was an endless line of tiny buttons down her back and it took him an age to unfasten them all - not helped as he simply had to keep stopping in order to press kisses over her shoulders and neck and tumbling hair. Finally she was stepping out of a pile of heavy silk and hoops and petticoats, standing before him in only her underclothes.

He had, in fact, both laced and unlaced a corset before. Not under any salacious circumstances; he merely had a sister, and there were odd times growing up when neither mother nor maid was available and even the clumsiest of brothers would do for an impatient eldest child.

He did not share the source of his knowledge with the woman before him. He was merely glad he did not fumble too badly with the strings, and once loose she unhooked the eyes in front and the garment fell away, too, to be discarded mindlessly on the floor with her dress.

She turned then, reaching her arms up around his neck, mouth seeking his for another kiss. She was soft and incredibly warm to his touch through only the thin cotton of her chemise. He could have stood like that forever, discovering the curves of her flesh under his hands as their lips met and met again. But soon her hands were pushing his coat from his shoulders and unknotting his cravat.

"Now you," she said between fevered kisses, and he forced his hands from her body to tear at the buttons of his waistcoat, dropping it with his coat somewhere behind him, he cared not. His shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the throat, came off over his head, and then she was leading him to the bed, pushing him to sit on the side while she knelt before him to remove his boots.

His cock throbbed to see her bent so near - his mind full of the moment in her dressing room, only days since, when she had taken him in her mouth. In a haze of lust, he watched as she tended to him, setting his boots aside one by one, small hands slipping up under the cuffs of his trousers so she could strip off his stockings. 

She knelt up, leaning between his knees as she reached for the fastenings at his waist. His breath caught as her hands brushed against him, and at her urging he lifted his backside so she could tug his britches down and off. He was naked before her then, his cock standing stiff and swollen between them. She grasped it in her hands, fingers gliding over the shaft. He hissed and caught her wrists, stilling her movements, for even this light touch was almost too much. 

"Don't you dare," she remonstrated him, laying her palms flat on his thighs to push herself to her feet. "You must wait for me, it's terribly rude to go on ahead." 

"I want to please you. But... how much longer must I wait?" 

She just laughed, tipping up his chin with the tip of her finger to drop a kiss on his lips. Then she retreated, bending to remove her own shoes and peel down her stockings, before making her way around the room to put out the lamps, till the room was lit only by a candlestick on the night table.

She went to the other side of the bed, drawing down the covers, and he hastily scrambled between the sheets on his side. He stared as she caught the hem of her chemise and lifted it off over her head, and then climbed in beside him, as nude as he.

He should have been quite lost at that moment, thinking he must take her in his arms and then - and then - his thoughts too jumbled to find his way amongst them to the correct path he must take. But she came to him instead, pushing him back into the pile of pillows and kneeling over him, bringing his hands to her breasts and dropping kisses over his throat and chest. 

"Yes, like that," she encouraged as his hands found the natural way to cup and caress her luscious mounds. His thumbs brushed her nipples and she made an urgent sound - he recalled that sound, from when he had brought her off with his mouth between her thighs. He did it again, roughening his touch, and she arched her back, biting her lip.

Her hand suddenly found his cock once more, gripping him firmly, as her other hand took hold of him by the chin. "Remember," she cautioned, waiting for his eyes to fix on hers, "you must wait for me." 

He nodded. He would certainly try.

And then she shifted above him, and took him inside, the startling heat of her cunt enveloping him like nothing he had imagined. He swore, mouth dropping and his eyes squeezing shut tight. 

"That's remarkable," he gasped, his hands moving uselessly until they found and caught at her hips.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, and began to ride him.

All at once it was nearly too much, and yet not nearly enough - he groaned and bucked up under her, overwhelmed by her tightness and the writhing undulations of her pelvis, and desperate for release.

"Matthew!" she snapped. "Look at me, concern yourself with _me_ , not what your cock is doing. I'm far more important. If you ever want to fuck me again, you'll remember this." 

Her filthy mouth startled him enough to open his eyes and then he was caught by the truth of her words. There she was, glorious above him, all of her revealed to him, a feast for his eyes and hands. He took all of her in that he could; the line of her throat as her head tilted back, the way her breath came fast from her parted lips, her breasts bouncing with the rise and fall of her as she rode him. The way she purred when his hands covered her breasts again, squeezing and rubbing at her rosy, puckered nipples. 

Her pace increased, becoming urgent and frenzied. "Oh yes, yes, a little more, just a little more," she gasped, leaning backwards to brace herself with her hands on his legs.

She had distracted him well but he was losing himself again now, her frantic motions carrying him away with her as he watched where their bodies met, seeing his prick buried over and over again inside her by her thrustings - his blood boiled in his groin and he clutched her hips and arched up into her wildly, crying out his pleasure just as she began to moan, long and loud, above him. Her cunt locked tight around him as he spent himself and then fell loose, flat to the bed, all tension leaving him in an instant, while she still shuddered and rocked for long moments after, finishing more slowly.

Finally she draped herself down over his chest, her hands curled around his shoulders, the crown of her head tucked under his chin. His cock, limp now, was still seated inside her.

"Are you... well?" he ventured. 

She sighed. "Oh, tolerably."

"And was this - was I - did I -"

"Shhhh." A lazy hand came up to his face and her fingers covered his lips. "I'll have you again. Most certainly."

"Oh. Thank you."

She laughed, and after a moment he found himself joining her.


End file.
